To kill a mockingbird by Harper Lee (CHAPTER 3–part 2)

she’s scared of a mouse. Little Chuck Little, whose patience with all living things
was phenomenal, said, “Which way did he go, Miss Caroline? Tell us where he
went, quick! D.C.-” he turned to a boy behind him—“D.C., shut the door and
we’ll catch him. Quick, ma’am, where’d he go?”
Miss Caroline pointed a shaking finger not at the floor nor at a desk, but to a
hulking individual unknown to me. Little Chuck’s face contracted and he said
gently, “You mean him, ma’am? Yessum, he’s alive. Did he scare you some
way?”
Miss Caroline said desperately, “I was just walking by when it crawled out of his
hair… just crawled out of his hair-”
Little Chuck grinned broadly. “There ain’t no need to fear a cootie, ma’am. Ain’t
you ever seen one? Now don’t you be afraid, you just go back to your desk and
teach us some more.”
Little Chuck Little was another member of the population who didn’t know where
his next meal was coming from, but he was a born gentleman. He put his hand
under her elbow and led Miss Caroline to the front of the room. “Now don’t you
fret, ma’am,” he said. “There ain’t no need to fear a cootie. I’ll just fetch you
some cool water.” The cootie’s host showed not the faintest interest in the furor
he had wrought. He searched the scalp above his forehead, located his guest and
pinched it between his thumb and forefinger.
Miss Caroline watched the process in horrid fascination. Little Chuck brought
water in a paper cup, and she drank it gratefully. Finally she found her voice.
“What is your name, son?” she asked softly.
The boy blinked. “Who, me?” Miss Caroline nodded.
“Burris Ewell.”
Miss Caroline inspected her roll-book. “I have a Ewell here, but I don’t have a
first name… would you spell your first name for me?”
“Don’t know how. They call me Burris’t home.”
“Well, Burris,” said Miss Caroline, “I think we’d better excuse you for the rest of
the afternoon. I want you to go home and wash your hair.”
From her desk she produced a thick volume, leafed through its pages and read for a moment. “A good home remedy for—Burris, I want you to go home and wash
your hair with lye soap. When you’ve done that, treat your scalp with kerosene.”
“What fer, missus?”
“To get rid of the—er, cooties. You see, Burris, the other children might catch
them, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?”
The boy stood up. He was the filthiest human I had ever seen. His neck was dark
gray, the backs of his hands were rusty, and his fingernails were black deep into
the quick. He peered at Miss Caroline from a fist-sized clean space on his face.
No one had noticed him, probably, because Miss Caroline and I had entertained
the class most of the morning.
“And Burris,” said Miss Caroline, “please bathe yourself before you come back
tomorrow.”
The boy laughed rudely. “You ain’t sendin‘ me home, missus. I was on the verge
of leavin’—I done done my time for this year.”
Miss Caroline looked puzzled. “What do you mean by that?”
The boy did not answer. He gave a short contemptuous snort.
One of the elderly members of the class answered her: “He’s one of the Ewells,
ma’am,” and I wondered if this explanation would be as unsuccessful as my
attempt. But Miss Caroline seemed willing to listen. “Whole school’s full of ‘em.
They come first day every year and then leave. The truant lady gets ’em here
‘cause she threatens ’em with the sheriff, but she’s give up tryin‘ to hold ’em. She
reckons she’s carried out the law just gettin‘ their names on the roll and runnin’
‘em here the first day. You’re supposed to mark ’em absent the rest of the year…”
“But what about their parents?” asked Miss Caroline, in genuine concern.
“Ain’t got no mother,” was the answer, “and their paw’s right contentious.”
Burris Ewell was flattered by the recital. “Been comin‘ to the first day o’ the first
grade fer three year now,” he said expansively. “Reckon if I’m smart this year
they’ll promote me to the second…”
Miss Caroline said, “Sit back down, please, Burris,” and the moment she said it I
knew she had made a serious mistake. The boy’s condescension flashed to anger.
“You try and make me, missus.”Little Chuck Little got to his feet. “Let him go, ma’am,” he said. “He’s a mean
one, a hard-down mean one. He’s liable to start somethin‘, and there’s some little
folks here.”
He was among the most diminutive of men, but when Burris Ewell turned toward
him, Little Chuck’s right hand went to his pocket. “Watch your step, Burris,” he
said. “I’d soon’s kill you as look at you. Now go home.”
Burris seemed to be afraid of a child half his height, and Miss Caroline took
advantage of his indecision: “Burris, go home. If you don’t I’ll call the principal,”
she said. “I’ll have to report this, anyway.”
The boy snorted and slouched leisurely to the door.
Safely out of range, he turned and shouted: “Report and be damned to ye! Ain’t
no snot-nosed slut of a schoolteacher ever born c’n make me do nothin‘! You
ain’t makin’ me go nowhere, missus. You just remember that, you ain’t makin‘
me go nowhere!”
He waited until he was sure she was crying, then he shuffled out of the building.
Soon we were clustered around her desk, trying in our various ways to comfort
her. He was a real mean one… below the belt… you ain’t called on to teach folks
like that… them ain’t Maycomb’s ways, Miss Caroline, not really… now don’t
you fret, ma’am. Miss Caroline, why don’t you read us a story? That cat thing
was real fine this mornin‘…
Miss Caroline smiled, blew her nose, said, “Thank you, darlings,” dispersed us,
opened a book and mystified the first grade with a long narrative about a toadfrog
that lived in a hall.
When I passed the Radley Place for the fourth time that day—twice at a full gallop
—my gloom had deepened to match the house. If the remainder of the school year
were as fraught with drama as the first day, perhaps it would be mildly
entertaining, but the prospect of spending nine months refraining from reading
and writing made me think of running away.
By late afternoon most of my traveling plans were complete; when Jem and I
raced each other up the sidewalk to meet Atticus coming home from work, I
didn’t give him much of a race. It was our habit to run meet Atticus the moment